The heart of Morocco
The heart of Morocco
Updated 00:53am (Mla time) Dec 08, 2004
By Rina Jimenez-David
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A15 of the Dec. 8, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
FEZ, Morocco -- Driving in from the southeast, down from the Atlas Mountains, one enters this former royal capital through the "new towns," or as the former French colonizers put it, the "villes nouvelles." These are typical suburbs, with wide roads, gated communities, lively commercial areas in modern dress.
But the real heart of the city, and indeed, the "symbolic heart of Morocco" is the medina, the old walled city that lies in a valley.
The major Moroccan cities were all built around such old walled cities, a cluster of buildings, shops and houses protected by massive thick earthen and clay walls, all of which are pierced by holes which, so our reliable guide Aziz claims, were used both to look out for approaching strangers as well as to speed up the drying process of the clay walls.
Still, the old medina of Fez is widely regarded as the most magnificent of these walled cities. It is one of the "largest living medieval cities in the world," marked for preservation by the Unesco as one of the world's greatest treasures.
And indeed what a treasure of a living city it is! Walking through its narrow passageways and cobbled streets, one's senses are assaulted by a bewildering array of sights, sounds, smells -- the aroma of spices mingling with the tang of freshly picked oranges, bright woven scarves, jellabahs and caftans waving in the wind alongside raw cuts of beef and mutton, slabs of pink and lemon yellow nougats, studded with almonds and pistachios, alongside lamps and intricately carved candles.
It seems everything created by human hands and nature as well, save for crass appliances and cars, are sold here. One member of our group yelled in astonishment as he passed a small wooden shop: "Hey, they sell violins in there!" A university professor ducked into a store to buy a Berber drum for his 9-year-old grandson. I had set out on a mission to buy dates and walnuts for my husband, and came upon a shop selling such a wide variety of dates I had to taste each one of them, of course!
* * *
ONE never knew what would be coming from the nearest corner. Rounding the bend, one might suddenly confront a donkey dragging along a loaded cart, the only form of transportation allowed within the medina. While walking, one kept one's ears peeled for shouts of "Atencion! Atencion!" a signal to quickly stand off to the side unless one wished to be trampled on by a smelly donkey or a heavy wheelbarrow.
Turning into a corner, we were startled by a construction worker in a bright yellow raincoat, a pickaxe slung over his shoulder. We saw schoolchildren coming from or just going to school, old men in tattered jellabahs and filthy turbans, touts and amateur "guides" in leather jackets and jeans, and most incredibly, a young girl of about 6 with a pink backpack, strolling along with us as she sang to herself, smiling about secrets only she knew, then turning into a narrow alley and entering through a wooden doorway.
Some 200,000 people still call the medina of Fez home-"too many for a city that needs preserving," commented Aziz. And for them, it is a real neighborhood and not just an exotic showcase or relic of the past.
Aziz, who was born and grew up in the medina of Fez, though his family has since moved out to the new villages, brought us to a neighborhood baker, to whom families brought loaves of unbaked bread and picked up the warm, baked loaves after 30 minutes or so. In the few minutes that we stood in the doorway, about six people arrived with wooden trays bearing pale dough shaped into the customary round loaves and covered with towels. Some bore markings to tell the baker to whom they belonged. "No problem," said Aziz, "even if a loaf comes without markings, the baker knows to whom it belongs."
* * *
THE NEIGHBORHOOD baker is a trusted person in the neighborhood, and one who knows, just by counting the number of loaves one brings, how many people there are in the family, and if one is expecting visitors. The baker is also the local center of information, and if one is looking for a resident, one goes to the baker for his or her address, not to the police station.
A visitor can never know, judging from the outside with its narrow alleys, high walls sometimes topped with reed coverings, and imposing wooden doors, what lies behind this secretive exterior.
After winding our way down through the cobbled alleys, we turned into a small courtyard guarded by a wrought iron gate and entered into a larger and truly beautiful inner courtyard with a silent fountain in the center, planted with fragrant roses and strewn with rose petals.
We were at the Palais Menebhi, the former residence of a prominent medina resident who had served as finance minister to two kings. The Menebhi family later sold the palace to a wealthy businessman who decided to convert it into a teahouse and restaurant (upon the urging of tourism officials) and open it to the public. The Palais Menebhi is decorated in typical Moroccan fashion, using the usual elements of tile mosaic, cedar and stucco "worked in place," that is carved on site in intricate and delicate filigree patterns.
In the dining room, seated on low-slung couches and low chairs, we rested our weary feet and feasted on Moroccan fare, the most outstanding of which, I must say, was a “tajine” of lamb and prunes. The meat was so tender, with the prunes lending a piquant note of sweetness, that I ate more than was properly my share. So full was I that I had no more room for the next dish, a more traditional tajine of chicken and vegetables on a bed of couscous.
Fortified, we set out once more for the alleys and backways, shops and factories, sights, sounds and aromas of the magnificent medina of Fez.
Updated 00:53am (Mla time) Dec 08, 2004
By Rina Jimenez-David
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A15 of the Dec. 8, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
FEZ, Morocco -- Driving in from the southeast, down from the Atlas Mountains, one enters this former royal capital through the "new towns," or as the former French colonizers put it, the "villes nouvelles." These are typical suburbs, with wide roads, gated communities, lively commercial areas in modern dress.
But the real heart of the city, and indeed, the "symbolic heart of Morocco" is the medina, the old walled city that lies in a valley.
The major Moroccan cities were all built around such old walled cities, a cluster of buildings, shops and houses protected by massive thick earthen and clay walls, all of which are pierced by holes which, so our reliable guide Aziz claims, were used both to look out for approaching strangers as well as to speed up the drying process of the clay walls.
Still, the old medina of Fez is widely regarded as the most magnificent of these walled cities. It is one of the "largest living medieval cities in the world," marked for preservation by the Unesco as one of the world's greatest treasures.
And indeed what a treasure of a living city it is! Walking through its narrow passageways and cobbled streets, one's senses are assaulted by a bewildering array of sights, sounds, smells -- the aroma of spices mingling with the tang of freshly picked oranges, bright woven scarves, jellabahs and caftans waving in the wind alongside raw cuts of beef and mutton, slabs of pink and lemon yellow nougats, studded with almonds and pistachios, alongside lamps and intricately carved candles.
It seems everything created by human hands and nature as well, save for crass appliances and cars, are sold here. One member of our group yelled in astonishment as he passed a small wooden shop: "Hey, they sell violins in there!" A university professor ducked into a store to buy a Berber drum for his 9-year-old grandson. I had set out on a mission to buy dates and walnuts for my husband, and came upon a shop selling such a wide variety of dates I had to taste each one of them, of course!
* * *
ONE never knew what would be coming from the nearest corner. Rounding the bend, one might suddenly confront a donkey dragging along a loaded cart, the only form of transportation allowed within the medina. While walking, one kept one's ears peeled for shouts of "Atencion! Atencion!" a signal to quickly stand off to the side unless one wished to be trampled on by a smelly donkey or a heavy wheelbarrow.
Turning into a corner, we were startled by a construction worker in a bright yellow raincoat, a pickaxe slung over his shoulder. We saw schoolchildren coming from or just going to school, old men in tattered jellabahs and filthy turbans, touts and amateur "guides" in leather jackets and jeans, and most incredibly, a young girl of about 6 with a pink backpack, strolling along with us as she sang to herself, smiling about secrets only she knew, then turning into a narrow alley and entering through a wooden doorway.
Some 200,000 people still call the medina of Fez home-"too many for a city that needs preserving," commented Aziz. And for them, it is a real neighborhood and not just an exotic showcase or relic of the past.
Aziz, who was born and grew up in the medina of Fez, though his family has since moved out to the new villages, brought us to a neighborhood baker, to whom families brought loaves of unbaked bread and picked up the warm, baked loaves after 30 minutes or so. In the few minutes that we stood in the doorway, about six people arrived with wooden trays bearing pale dough shaped into the customary round loaves and covered with towels. Some bore markings to tell the baker to whom they belonged. "No problem," said Aziz, "even if a loaf comes without markings, the baker knows to whom it belongs."
* * *
THE NEIGHBORHOOD baker is a trusted person in the neighborhood, and one who knows, just by counting the number of loaves one brings, how many people there are in the family, and if one is expecting visitors. The baker is also the local center of information, and if one is looking for a resident, one goes to the baker for his or her address, not to the police station.
A visitor can never know, judging from the outside with its narrow alleys, high walls sometimes topped with reed coverings, and imposing wooden doors, what lies behind this secretive exterior.
After winding our way down through the cobbled alleys, we turned into a small courtyard guarded by a wrought iron gate and entered into a larger and truly beautiful inner courtyard with a silent fountain in the center, planted with fragrant roses and strewn with rose petals.
We were at the Palais Menebhi, the former residence of a prominent medina resident who had served as finance minister to two kings. The Menebhi family later sold the palace to a wealthy businessman who decided to convert it into a teahouse and restaurant (upon the urging of tourism officials) and open it to the public. The Palais Menebhi is decorated in typical Moroccan fashion, using the usual elements of tile mosaic, cedar and stucco "worked in place," that is carved on site in intricate and delicate filigree patterns.
In the dining room, seated on low-slung couches and low chairs, we rested our weary feet and feasted on Moroccan fare, the most outstanding of which, I must say, was a “tajine” of lamb and prunes. The meat was so tender, with the prunes lending a piquant note of sweetness, that I ate more than was properly my share. So full was I that I had no more room for the next dish, a more traditional tajine of chicken and vegetables on a bed of couscous.
Fortified, we set out once more for the alleys and backways, shops and factories, sights, sounds and aromas of the magnificent medina of Fez.
posted by Dante at 5:53 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home